


Technique

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: Board Games, Competition, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3927979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Hikaru.' A little bit tense, the name, drawing stern in his throat as he speaks. 'Are you playing a game on my back?'" Shindou and Touya play a game of blind Go with somewhat unusual technique.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Technique

“ _Akira_ ,” Shindou whines for the fifth time in ten minutes. “Come on, aren’t you done reading that yet?”

“Be quiet, Hikaru,” Touya offers back without looking up from the magazine spread out in front of him. “I’d be able to read faster if you stopped interrupting me.”

“I’m bored,” Shindou protests, throws himself melodramatically across the bed. Touya doesn’t look over at him, but the impact of the other’s motion shifts his weight and creases irritation across his forehead. “You can read on your own, c’mon, play a game with me.” He reaches out to drag the magazine from Touya’s hands; it’s only because Touya is expecting it that he’s ready to smack the other boy’s hands away, to frown at the page instead of at Shindou.

“Go away,” he says again without any real expectation of being obeyed. He’s not wrong; Shindou does nothing like pull away, just rolls sideways and heaves a gusting sigh. He’s pressed close like this, his hip in against Touya’s knee and one arm sprawled out behind Touya’s back in what is almost an embrace and certainly unnecessary contact.

Touya doesn’t complain. It may not be necessary but it feels good to have the warmth of the other boy pressed in against him, even the distraction when Shindou reaches up to start idly dragging fingers against his spine worth the attention it pulls from the page before him. With Shindou tucked in at his hip Touya’s hair covers his face, gives him the excuse of hiding behind the shadow to shut his eyes and curve his back in appreciation of the touch. He’s fairly sure Shindou knows how distracted he is -- it’s not hard to miss, especially when minutes go by and Touya hasn’t so much as touched a page -- but capitulating to the distraction is a lot easier to do when his skin is flickering warm with idle friction and his thoughts are going hazy and gentle.

Then the shape of the motion starts to come clear, turns into a pattern instead of just unthinking movement, and Touya’s eyes snap open, his forehead creases into suspicion.

“Hikaru.” A little bit tense, the name, drawing stern in his throat as he speaks. “Are you playing a game on my  _back_?”

“You were ignoring me,” Shindou says, like this is reason enough for the steady tap of fingers against Touya’s spine in logical patterns. “This is the best way to spend the time.”

“It’s distracting,” Touya declares, but there’s no condemnation in his tone; there’s no emotion at all, just observation, all his attention given away to the steady patter of Shindou’s fingers against the back of his shirt.

It takes him a few minutes to place the pattern. He has to figure out how the board is oriented, trace back the tingling afterimages of Shindou’s touch at his shoulder and low by his hip, but the pattern is familiar enough that he picks it up anyway, is smiling down at his hands before he speaks.

“This is the first game we played together as pros,” he observes, and he’s sure Shindou can hear his smile but it’s too irrepressible to even attempt to control.

“Yeah,” and Shindou sounds softer than usual, gentle and careful with the word like it’s something fragile, the way he always sounds when he talks about their past games.

They’re both silent for a moment. Shindou is still moving, his touch still burning spots of painless heat against Touya’s back, but Touya’s not even pretending to read anymore; he’s staring into space instead, seeing the game unfold from his memory and Shindou’s touch like it’s right in front of him, the visual of the board itself unnecessary for the moment.

“Hey, Akira,” Shindou says presently, his voice dropping into the conspiratorial tone that usually means Touya should get ready to refuse. “Let’s play a game of blind Go.”

“Mm,” Touya hums noncommittally. “You don’t get to use the board, that’s too much of an unfair advantage.”

“I don’t  _need_  an advantage to beat you,” Shindou declares, and for a minute Touya thinks they might topple into the familiarity of an argument without actually playing at all. But then Shindou pauses, recentering himself like he sometimes does in the middle of a game, and when he speaks again it’s in that same slow considering tone. “Let’s not use a board at all.”

“Just out loud, then?” Touya asks. It wouldn’t be the first time, but that doesn’t explain Shindou’s purring suggestiveness; there’s something still to come, he knows, and he’s not about to agree to this idea until he sees the whole shape of it.

“Nah.” Shindou spreads his hand wide, presses his palm to Touya’s back; Touya has the unavoidable image of Go stones sliding out of alignment, toppling off the edge of a board to clink at the floor. “You should take your shirt off.”

Touya’s eyebrows jump up without any conscious thought on his part. “What happened to playing a game?”

“That’s what we’re doing,” and Shindou’s sitting up, his fingers dragging down Touya’s shirt to pull the fabric loose from the other boy’s pants. “C’mon, take your shirt off.”

“You never make any sense,” Touya huffs, but when he pulls free of Shindou’s hold it’s only so he can push the buttons of his shirt free and shrug it off his shoulders. Shindou’s watching, he can feel the other’s eyes on him, but as long as he doesn’t turn around the other boy won’t see how flushed with self-consciousness Touya is, as long as he’s careful when he speaks he can sustain the appearance of calm.

“There,” he says as he shakes his shirt into smooth lines, folds it to give himself something to do with the tremble in his hands. “Happy now?”

Shindou’s hand curves to fit at his waist, pushes to urge him over. “Lay down,” he insists, pushing even while Touya sighs and reaches out to set his shirt aside before he goes. The neatly made line of his sheets is familiar, even the faint soapy smell of the pillow usual, but there’s no comfort to be gained from his bed; Touya’s too tight-wound with expectation, a little bit curious and mostly nervous about what Shindou has in mind. But he can press his face to the pillow, hide the burn over his skin with their cover, and then Shindou’s fingers are dragging across his skin to trace out a grid against his back, and Touya begins to get an idea of where this is going.

“Why on  _my_ back?” he asks instead of protesting the basic premise, because he is tingling warm with embarrassment and anticipation in equal parts and the best he can do to keep his voice sounding faintly irritated instead of shaky.

“‘Cause it was my idea,” Shindou says, sounding amused and pleased with himself. He’s crosshatching the lines, now, the familiar outline of a Go board left in tingling friction against Touya’s back, and Touya thinks distantly that this might end up being a lot harder than a simple game of blind Go.

“Who goes first?” he asks the sheets, staring wide-eyed and unseeing at the texture of the fabric underneath him.

“You can,” Shindou declares with all the magnanimity of an easy win. Touya rolls his eyes at the tone, but the best way to express irritation with Shindou is via a game, and, well.

“3-3,” he snaps, his voice cracking in place of the stone tapping at the board. There’s a touch at his back, the press of a fingertip near his shoulder as Shindou presses his move in against Touya’s skin; then another, so fast he must be using his other hand for his turn, and Touya shuts his eyes to watch the board spread out in his thoughts.

It’s soothing, at first. Touya can feel the rhythm of the game in his blood, the pattern of Shindou’s fingers against his skin like raindrops beating out the logic of his thoughts. The lingering heat of contact helps, too, gives him a moment to adjust the game behind his shut eyelids, and it’s relaxing, the incidental contact against his spine or the edge of his ribs.

It’s when he starts to notice Shindou’s breathing that his attention skids sideways.

It’s not uncommon for them both to get breathless during a game; it happened the first time, still does now with enough frequency that Touya thinks almost nothing of it, doesn’t find it strange that win or loss their matches often end with one of them straddling the other and kissing all the heat of competition against the other’s mouth. But he doesn’t thought about it until he hears Shindou’s breath catch as the game picks up pace, feels the other boy shift his weight, and suddenly Shindou’s fingertips feel like they’re made of fire instead of just glowing warm.

“11-7,” Touya says automatically, the culmination of a series of moves so ingrained he doesn’t have to think about it. Shindou’s fingers skim his hip, press down maybe harder than they need to, and something in Touya’s thoughts flickers, like his focus on the game is slipping sideways. He’s hard, he realizes, isn’t sure how long he has been, doesn’t know what that says about his usual games with Shindou that it didn’t seem worth noting, but now that he’s noticed it’s pure distraction, fire in his veins to fog the clarity of his thoughts.

“Hikaru,” Touya says, the first time he’s said anything but a coordinate in the last several minutes, and Shindou’s hand slips, drags a wave of heat across his back. Touya jerks, groans louder than he intended, and Shindou whimpers, wraps his fingers in hard at Touya’s hip like he’s bracing himself. They’re caught together, Touya realizes, Shindou’s knee pressed hard against his like he’s barely clinging to clarity and the short-cut edges of his fingernails catching at Touya’s skin.

“Sorry,” Shindou manages, breathless and a sounding a little bit shaky. “Do you remember where we were?”

“Yes,” Touya says against the sheets. “Do you?”

“Yeah.” A pause, an inhale. “Want to keep going?”

Touya feels like his skin is burning, all his body tingling itself into steam until he’s not sure if he’s more excited for the conclusion of the game or the continued drag of Shindou’s fingers on him. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Shindou shifts, like he’s getting comfortable, loosens his fingers at Touya’s hip. When he moves again it’s to push his hand in lower to trace along the top edge of the other boy’s pants. Touya is aware he should probably stop him, for the sake of the game if nothing else, but he stays silent, doesn’t pull away or snap a protest, and when Shindou’s touch indicates his next move he says, “7-9” as practiced-callused fingers close at his belt buckle to tug it free.

Shindou does most of the work. Touya keeps his eyes shut, keeps his hands still except to brace himself in the moment it takes Shindou to drag his clothes off his hips and down his legs, and his skin is tingling like he’s made of all-over electricity but Shindou’s breathing hard, too, pausing longer than he usually needs over every move like he’s recreating the game from scratch in his head. When he does move it’s clean, decisive, the weight of his finger pressing in dead center along Touya’s spine, and Touya has to let a breath gasp out of his lungs as much from the beauty of the move as from the heat of Shindou’s touch.

There’s motion behind him, Shindou leaning sideways and over the edge of the bed, and Touya stays still, tries to keep his thoughts on the game and not on what he knows Shindou is reaching for. It’s not that it’s hard, exactly; it’s more that it’s all tangling together, the heat and the excitement of the game and the adrenaline in his chest, and his skin is going damp with sweat, now, his hands starting to shake until he’s glad that he’s not trying to keep his hold on actual pieces.

“17-2,” he says finally, as Shindou’s knees push between his to steady out the other boy’s movements. Touya can hear every inhale Shindou is taking, the catch of his breath rough and heated in his throat, and he’s aching with tension, so tight-wound that when Shindou’s thumb presses against his hip he jerks like he’s been shocked. Shindou doesn’t pull away for a moment, lets the contact linger, and before Touya can think to wonder why there are slick fingers touching against his leg, and he knows.

“Oh,” he says, the sound more air spilling over his lips than a deliberate reaction. “17-3.”

Shindou touches the indicated location, fingers skimming over skin, but his other hand is moving too, slippery fingers pressing in against Touya. Touya has to take a breath and hold it, cling to the shape of the game in his head with actual attention as Shindou’s fingers ease into him; the burst of sensation would be too much, otherwise,  _is_  enough to tense between his shoulders and along his spine until the flat surface of their imagined board is curving into hills and valleys formed of his reaction. Shindou lets a breath go, pushes in deeper, and Touya can feel the first edge of distraction hitting him, his tracking of the moves slipping in his thoughts like it’s as slick as Shindou’s fingers.

The only advantage is that Shindou is distracted too. It’s long minutes before he indicates his next move, not until Touya’s relaxed against the sheets again and his back has smoothed out of its tight-wound knots. It’s not as inspired as Shindou’s actions usually are, shows the sign of rote recitation that would normally spark irritation into Touya’s blood, but as it is it feels like the beginnings of a victory that has less to do with the game and more to do with maintaining composure under the circumstances.

“5-2,” Touya says, tips his weight back over his knees, and Shindou groans far back in his throat, reaches out to grab at Touya’s hip and hold him steady while he thrusts his fingers in harder. Heat sparks up Touya’s spine, whites out his vision, but his eyes are shut anyway, he doesn’t need to be able to see. He takes a breath, forces air into the taut expectation of his chest, and: “I said  _5-2_ , Hikaru.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shindou blurts, reaches up to dig his thumb against Touya’s back, and Touya knows he’s won, is certain well before Shindou’s hand pulls away and he can hear the rough sound of a zipper’s metal teeth coming open. His hair is sticking to his forehead, his mouth open and gasping at the pillow, but victory sings exaltation through him, gives him the strength to push up over his elbows and steady his weight over his knees as Shindou comes in behind him and slides his fingers free so he can grab at Touya’s hips instead.

“Do you resign?” Touya asks, twisting the words into a taunt, and Shindou groans and pushes against him. There’s a moment of hesitation, pressure and heat and the almost-burn of the stretch, and then he’s sliding inside and Touya’s gasping against the bed.

“Fuck,” Shindou says again, a little more grating and a little less heated, and draws back, angles forward for another thrust, deeper and harder this time. Touya’s vision flares into white, his attention skids slippery as ice, but when he opens his mouth what he says is “ _Hikaru_. Do you resign?”

“Oh my  _god_ , Akira,” Shindou blurts. “ _Fine_ , yeah, I resign.”

Touya can feel the tension shudder out of his shoulders, the last desperate need to hold onto the game unwinding into heat. When he sighs into the pillow it turns into a groan, winds itself back into a gasp when Shindou’s fingers come down to fumble a hold against his cock, and then Shindou starts to move and Touya is left to cling to the now-rumpled sheets and try to hold onto coherency as long as he can. It’s hard to do; thoughts are chasing themselves through his head too fast to catch, opening moves and endgames and Shindou, Shindou written into every  _kifu_  and carved onto every goban, and Shindou  _here_ , now, with him, the rhythm of their movement like the graceful flow of a well-matched game. Touya is dropping into the almost-fugue he sometimes hits mid-game, when his movements fall easy from his fingertips to snap against the board, only now his motion is shifting against the bed, his weight tipping back to meet each of Shindou’s movements. He’s winding tighter, adrenaline tightening under his skin and wiping his thoughts blank and clean until he can’t see the conclusion, can’t see the next minute, can’t see anything but this present heartbeat.

It’s Shindou who gives in first in this, as well. Touya can hear it in the friction of his inhales, can feel it in the impulsive thrust of his hips, until when Shindou shudders and groans himself into orgasm it spills the heat of satisfaction into Touya’s thoughts while his own body is still taut and anxious. Shindou keeps moving his hand, stroking up hard and rushed over Touya’s length, and with that satisfaction uncurling into his thoughts it’s only a few more moments before Touya sighs and goes shaky and overheated into the wave of pleasure that hits him. He shudders against the bed, jolting through electric heat like always, and in the first few minutes of breathless heat he doesn’t think to complain that Shindou has collapsed down on top of him, the thin fabric of his shirt catching at the sweat collecting in the curve of Touya’s back. Eventually the weight becomes too much, the discomfort outweighs the exhaustion, and Touya works an arm free to reach up and push at Shindou’s shoulder.

“Get off,” he says, turning his head so he can breathe air not stifled by the pillow in front of him. Shindou makes a noise of protest but he goes, slipping sideways to sprawl loose-limbed across most of the width of Touya’s bed. Touya sits up, considers the mess they’ve made of the sheets; not as bad as it could have been, at least. With a shower and a change of clothes he’ll be back to his usual composure, though he’s not sure he can say the same for the glazed-over expression all across Shindou’s face.

“I’m going to rinse,” he declares, moving to climb over Shindou so he can get off the bed.

Fingers come out, close against his wrist. When Touya looks back down Shindou’s blinking at him, fast, like speed will give him attention again.

“You can’t go yet,” Shindou insists. “We have to finish our game.”

Touya’s eyebrows draw together at his forehead, irritation tugging his mouth into a frown. “We  _did_. You resigned.”

“Let’s replay,” Shindou says, sitting up without letting his hold go. “For real this time.”

Touya huffs, snatches his hand free. “Were you  _not_  playing for real?”

Shindou grins. “I woulda won if I had been.”

Touya’s throat constricts on a frustrated huff. “You would  _not_.”

“Prove it,” Shindou taunts.

Touya knows he’s being baited. Shindou’s techniques are elementary, easy to see through even when he’s not dazed with satisfied heat. But that doesn’t stop him tossing his head back, tipping his chin up with arrogant certainty of his own, and when he moves off the bed it’s to retrieve his clothes rather than to continue on to the shower.

Touya can never refuse a game with Shindou for very long.


End file.
